The two detectives found his diary under his bed. Unfortunately, their hopes of finding a clue to the location of young Henry MacAilis were immediately dashed upon opening the book. Inside, all they found were drawings of eyeballs, circles, and what could only be described as crazed writings alluding to a great one coming from the deep. Sometimes it wasn’t even coherent; what might begin as a well-structured sentence could devolve into a random string of letters and numbers that no sane human could pronounce.
“What do you think, Joe?” Martin said. “I’m thinking this looks less like a kidnapping and more of a runaway.”
“Maybe…” the other detective said, looking unsure. “But if that’s the case, who does this blood on the desk belong to?”
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